The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Read online

  The Time Duchess

  Georgina Young-Ellis

  Book Four Time Mistress Series

  The Time Duchess by Georgina Young Ellis

  © Copyright 2016

  Second Edition

  www.georginayoungellis.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No portion of this work may be reproduced by any means whatsoever without the explicit written consent of the author and the author's publisher. This work contains people who have been used in a fictionalized setting for the purpose of historical reference. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is used strictly for the embellishment of the story to lend creditable influence to the fictionalized work. The copyright laws of 1988, namely the Berne Convention Copyright Laws of 1988, and the Digital Millennium Copy Right Act of 1998, enacted by Congress protect this work from piracy and any transmission, trade, or sale through means electronic, printed, shared, or otherwise is strictly prohibited and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

  Cover art Design by Dark Water Arts Designs.

  The final approval for this work was granted by the author. This book is a Sci-Fi Time Travel Series released through LTB Publishing.

  Thanks and Acknowledgments:

  I'd like to thank the early readers of The Time Duchess: Teresa Barile, Rhonda Madsen, Patricia Young, Juliana Young, Giovanna Perciballi, Sheena Jefferis, Marica Bock Belloube, and Tara Hein-Phillips for their invaluable feedback and insight. I'd especially like to thank Dr. Chad Thomas, Assistant Professor of English at The University of Alabama in Huntsville, for his expert advice on Elizabethan language and the times. Above all, I'd like to thank my husband, Jonathan Ellis, for his unwavering support in a million ways. A special thanks to Candace Bowser, for absolutely everything.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my son, who continually inspires me with his commitment to his art.

  Chapter One

  It’s official: William Shakespeare is an idiot, thought James, sitting glumly at a table in the dimly-lit, smoky pub, surrounded by actors, wishing he were just about anywhere, at the moment, but Elizabethan London. Sometimes time travel wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “Barkeep,” a drunken Shakespeare yelled to the rotund, ruddy-faced man behind the bar, “another round!”

  “Not on your tab, old fellow,” the bartender replied, irritation thick in his voice, “I haven’t seen a farthing from you in months.”

  “Allow me,” offered James brightly. He waved at the bartender who grinned broadly, displaying a mouthful of large crooked teeth, and nodded while he began filling mugs.

  “Ah, our faithful spaniel, James Gwynne, to the rescue,” Shakespeare slobbered.

  The other actors at the rough wooden table laughed meekly, but Richard Burbage slapped James on the back. “Thank you, kind sir,” he bellowed with good nature.

  “’Tis my pleasure,” James replied. Which was true for the most part. For four months he’d been buying the acting troupe of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men food and drinks. He’d been donating money to them so they could pay the rent on their theatre, and providing for the printing costs of posters and leaflets―anything they needed help with, literally attempting to buy Shakespeare’s good opinion. The rest of the actors seemed to truly appreciate his patronage, but Shakespeare was only growing more resentful the more James did for them. It was difficult to fathom, because the time traveler had always been kind and complimentary, even about Shakespeare’s somewhat atrocious acting. James had seen the troupe’s productions of Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the history plays of the various Kings, Henry and Richard, among others, always praising Shakespeare for his great mastery of writing, but it never seemed to elevate him in the man’s estimation.

  A matronly server came with a tray and plopped the mugs down on the table, sloshing the ale about without a care, adding to the layers of stickiness that had accumulated there since time immemorial. Her thinning hair stuck out from under the cap that tied beneath her many chins. Her nose was bulbous and red from years of over-indulging. She flashed a toothless grin at James, and then waddled back across the earthen floor, kicking stools out of her way and letting them lie where they landed. She flopped into a wooden chair near the bar and continued to leer in James’s direction.

  Shakespeare snickered like a child. “She fancies you, Master Gwynne.”

  “And what if she does?” James replied, neatly arranging the empty cups she’d left behind.

  “I say the woman warrants exploration, for she is spherical, like a globe.” He laughed loudly.

  The joke was loosely borrowed from his play, The Comedy of Errors. “I have heard she is just the kind you prefer, Master Shakespeare,” James quipped with a grin and a wink to the others. “You should launch your own expedition.”

  “Hmmm.” Shakespeare finished off his beer and slammed the tankard down on the table. “Come to think of it, Master Gwynne, we never see you in the company of any wenches at all. Perhaps you are not of that bent?” The actor guffawed again, and Samuel Cross, a teenage boy who usually played the women in the company’s plays, looked uneasily around.

  “Do not be nervous, Sam,” joked Will Kempt, a fine comic actor whom James had come to admire. “I sense that Master Gwynne has no such preferences.”

  “Truly, I do not,” said James lightly. “Though it is not for me to judge those who do.” The afternoon of drinking had gone on long enough. He rose somewhat unsteadily, nearly striking his head on the low, beamed ceiling.

  “Have we offended you, sir?” Shakespeare inquired with an unpleasant smirk.

  “Not in the least,” James replied. He would not play the game. “However, now I must hasten to my own table where my cook will be expecting me to dine forthwith.” He took a step toward the exit. “I must bid you adieu.”

  “Oh, surely you will accompany us to the Bear Garden, where our carousing takes us next. We know how you adore a good contest between bear and hound.” Shakespeare jabbed Samuel Cross in the ribs.

  “You jest, for you know very well I do not.” James had turned down many an invitation from the company members to go with them to the arena where animals were pitted against each other to the death for the amusement of humans.

  “Very well then, be on your way.” Shakespeare turned away from him and took a huge slug of ale from the mug that James had just abandoned.

  Kempt, Burbage and the other actors shook hands with James and wished him a good night.

  “Oh, Richard,” Shakespeare said loudly to Burbage, as James walked away, “I have received a missive from Lord Oxford.”

  James paused with his hand on the door-latch.

  “Oh yes, Master Gwynne,” Shakespeare continued with a sneering glance over his shoulder. “I knew you would be interested. Since you came to know of my friendship with him, you have oft’ made inquiries on his behalf, have you not?”

  “I have no particular interest in Lord Oxford himself,” James lightly, a carefully composed smile on his face. “I have simply been wanting to procure an invitation to court, and thought that if you might introduce me to him, he would be willing to obtain such a thing for me.”

  “Then you are a fool, for he would have no more interest in meeting you than he would our foul, fat friend over there,” Shakespeare said, indicating the barmaid. “However, he is thinking of coming to London when the weather warms a bit, and will surely have me to dine at his mansion. ‘Tis nothing to do with you.”

  “Then forgive me for intruding on the conversation. I shall be on my way.”

  “Wait,” Burbage called. He jumped up from t
he table, pipe in hand, and intercepted James’s progress. “Tomorrow we stage the first production of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. We were hoping you would be there. You have been such a kind patron, we are anxious to hear your opinion of it.”

  “Speak for yourself, Richard,” Shakespeare slurred.

  Ignoring the remark, James said, “I would be honored. I shall see you on the morrow.” Doffing his hat he pulled the door open. “Farewell.”

  Burbage bowed in return, and James hurried out of the tavern before Shakespeare could open his mouth again.

  London had seen a spate of unseasonably warm February weather for the previous two weeks, so The Lord Chamberlain’s Men had been rushing to open the long anticipated production of Hamlet before it grew cold again. James was beside himself with excitement as he followed the throngs through Shoreditch to The Curtain theatre to witness the iconic play in its very first incarnation. He bought himself a seat in the area reserved for wealthy patrons, the front row of the second tier. Daylight shone through the open air ceiling, illuminating both stage and audience. The crowd on the ground level, called the pit, the cheapest area of the theatre where the hoards of the lower class stood to watch the play, was unruly as usual, eating and drinking, fighting and shouting.

  As the play began with the guards of the watch at Elsinore Castle spooked at having seen what they perceived to be a ghost, the audience quieted some. The people always loved a scary story. A few minutes into the action, a platform suddenly rose from the center of the stage, accompanied by a loud cranking noise, and Shakespeare, playing the part of the ghost of Hamlet’s father, face covered in white makeup, rose with it. The audience gasped. The actors responded with the appropriate terror and down the platform went again. The ghost appeared and reappeared in the same manner several times, but a few scenes later, when Hamlet had come to the ramparts of the castle to see the ghost for himself, Shakespeare made his appearance from the side of the stage. He strode out, waving his arms to give what he clearly believed to be an otherworldly effect, then planted himself, flat-footed, in the middle of the stage. He stared out at the audience for a long, drawn out moment with wild eyes. Slowly, he raised his hand and pointed a blackened finger. “Mark me!” he cried in a croaking voice.

  James couldn’t help himself. A laugh burst from his lips―the only person in the theatre who seemed to find the moment amusing. He clapped his hand to his mouth, but it was too late. Shakespeare stared right at him, scowling. The play continued, and Shakespeare, his part being a small one, gave his speeches and returned no more. The rest of the production was everything James had imagined it would be and by the end, he wanted nothing more than to congratulate the company on their success. He went backstage, as his privilege allowed, to laud the performers. All accepted his praises gratefully except for Shakespeare, who turned his back on him.

  “Please, Master Shakespeare,” James began, “forgive me. My outburst was not directed toward you.”

  Shakespeare observed him with narrowed eyes. “Very well then,” he finally said, a half-smile forming on his lips, “I accept your apology.”

  James exhaled. That was easier than he thought it would be.

  The next morning, a messenger arrived at James’s home and informed him that William Shakespeare had sent him to say that Lord Oxford was in town and the actor wanted to introduce the earl to Master Gwynne. At last! This was the turning point James had been hoping for. Maybe he and the playwright were finally putting their animosity behind them.

  The messenger told James to meet Shakespeare in Southwark at two in the afternoon on the site where The Globe theatre was being constructed. James obeyed, and found Shakespeare there, smoking a pipe and pacing the perimeter of the building.

  “Come, Master Gwynne,” said Shakespeare, offering his hand, “Lord Oxford awaits us. He is nearby, at the Bear Garden.”

  “Lord Oxford at the Bear Garden?” asked James, shaking the proffered hand.

  “He sometimes likes to play the common man,” Shakespeare explained hurrying along ahead. “I know you have an aversion to the place, but we shall not tarry long.”

  James went, his overwhelming desire to make the acquaintance of the man whom he’d been longing to meet for months taking precedence over his revulsion at the idea of what he might witness at the Bear Garden. With this introduction to the Earl of Oxford, James would hopefully make a good impression, perhaps even begin a friendship. He would endeavor to spend as much time in the nobleman’s company as possible so that he might delve into the mind that was surely one of the greatest of his age. He would win his confidence, get him to share his secrets and, ultimately, put an end to a debate that had been raging for centuries: had William Shakespeare really written the plays attributed to him or was he merely a front for someone else, Edward De Vere, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford? James had hoped that getting to know Shakespeare would be proof enough in his favor, but such had not proven to be the case. The actor was guarded at best, uninspiring at worst. Meeting Oxford had become key to James’s discovering the truth behind the plays’ true authorship, and doing so would be the fulfillment of all his hard work over the years, as both a scientist, and a scholar.

  They entered the arena, a space much like The Curtain theatre, and James’s senses were immediately assaulted by the most disgusting array of sights, smells, and sounds. Instead of a pit for audience members on the ground floor, there was a ring where a great, brown bear was chained to a post, surrounded by dogs, lunging, biting, tearing at its fur, which was matted with blood. The beast roared and swiped at the hounds with his claws, flinging them aside. Some lay inert, mortally wounded, others leapt back into the fray, and fresh animals were unleashed even as others met their end. The smell of blood and filth was intense. The spectators all stood behind a wooden fence that surrounded the ring. The first level was for the lowest classes, toothless, ragged savages, cheering and egging on the beasts. The upper classes stood in the second and third level tiers enjoying the display just as eagerly. Bile rose in James’s throat as the crowd jostled him. “Where is Lord Oxford?” he demanded.

  Shakespeare gestured and led the way through the crowds until they were a few scant feet from the bloody spectacle. One of the dogs let out a blood curdling howl as it met with the bear’s enormous claws. It flew through the air and bounced off the fence like so much meat, immediately in front of James where it attempted to regain its footing, only to collapse and remain still, blood pooling around its torn belly. James, overcome with disgust, vomited where he stood.

  Shakespeare laughed raucously. “That will teach you to mock me in my own playhouse!”

  James had been tricked. Fury blinded him like a red hot curtain, and before he knew it, his fist had connected with Shakespeare’s face. The actor reeled, but then, quick as a cat, came after his attacker, punches flying. James, the better fighter, hit the man again and again, until he went down, but Shakespeare, not so easily beaten, grabbed his knees and James fell on top of him. People gathered around, now watching the men fight instead of the animals. James grasped his opponent around his neck and gave his head a solid smack against the ground. Shakespeare passed out. James leapt to his feet and, without looking back, pushed through the smelly masses and out the door.

  Did I just kill William Shakespeare? The question hammered through his mind as James fled the arena, gasping for fresh air, of which there was none in this hell-hole of a city, all the while shoving the crowds on the narrow streets out of his way. He had to get to the portal exit. If he’d killed the man, there would be all manner of retribution, and the historical implications were beyond comprehension. The portal wasn’t far, but the warren of closely pressed houses and lanes was disorienting. The Thames had to be on his left though. If he kept on toward the west, toward London Bridge, he’d be able to find his way to St. Thomas Street before long.

  The mud was thick on the unpaved ground, mixed with urine and excrement, rotten food, and the offal of dead animals. He squelched through it
with determination, still not used to it after all this time. He glanced behind. No one appeared to be coming after him. The witnesses must be enjoying the novelty of the injured… or dead… man lying on the floor of the arena, or else they’d returned to the other horrifying spectacle they’d gone to see in the first place.

  At last, he blundered upon the portal entrance. There were a few indigents lurking about in this dirt poor area of the city, but James ignored their stares, pushing open the rickety gate into the tiny enclosure in the alleyway, and slamming it shut behind him. He immediately felt the tug of the transfer and then everything went black.

  Cassandra dropped into the nearest chair when she realized it was her son calling. Something must have gone wrong. He shouldn’t be back yet. “James, what happened?”

  Her son’s voice filled her head as he rushed to speak. “I just came through the portal a few minutes ago. Professor Carver said to call you while he researches the timelines.” His voice trailed off.

  “Why,” she asked with reluctance, “does he need to do that?”

  “Well, Shakespeare and I kind of got into a fight.”

  The pitch of Cassandra’s voice rose. “You what?”

  “I can’t explain it right now. I’m still shaking. I got out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not too much.”

  “Turn on the visual, I want to see you.”

  Suddenly, he was before her in three dimensions, sitting in an armchair, covered in dirt and blood. Cassandra’s boss, Elton Carver, stood next to him. It was as if her Boston kitchen and the portal lab had merged into the same room.

  “He’s a bit banged up, as you can see,” Professor Carver said.

  James dabbed at a cut on his head with a cloth.

  “What about Shakespeare, is he hurt?”